Swift

They say the Swift are the breeze before the dagger, feet hardly touching the ground as they slip between broken brush and moonlit barns. A Goblin Swift, cloaked in patched leather, rounds a corner into the Syndicate’s alley: in one hand a thrown blade, in the other a message only meant for one set of ears.   On the Gaulan Plains, where the wind carries both the song of grass and the whisper of betrayal, the Swift serve in silence. Not scouts, not messengers, but agile shadows—stealing truths, delivering fear, or vanishing into tall wheat before the dawn even tastes them. They move light, strike fast, and slip away as if the night itself regrets their presence.